Examining Family From the Inside Out

While browsing the web looking for the meaning (I mean word origin) of the word “family” I came across many definitions, some fit my lived experiences; most did’nt. I thought back to my childhood and examined my own family and my place in it with a critical eye with the hope that it would enhance my understanding of myself and many of the people whom played a great role in developing the man that I am today. In my research I discovered this sentence lodged in one of the many long winded definitions that I read:

“From the perspective of children, the family is a family of orientation: the family serves to locate children socially, and plays a major role in their acculturation and socialization.”

“Plays a major role in their acculturation” hmm, now that I think about it throughout the whole of my upbringing I would wager that I never once heard the word “culture” uttered by a single person in my family (with the exception of my oldest brother). As sad as it sounds, my American experience; or the early part of it at least, was spent accidentally stumbling through my formative years leaning on nothing more than loosely bound traditions and superstition. Nothing about my upbringing was African and very little was American; its was a smoldering melting pot of second hand plantation survivalist activity. I don’t want to be misunderstood, my family gave to me what they were able; you know the necessities for living a life in survival mode. And LOVE was in abundance, probably more so than in those households that trashed more than we earned. However, none of our African, Nationalist, Political, or Religious traditions were transmitted DIRECTLY and INTENTLY to the children of my generation. I again, don’t fault my FAMILY because they only gave what they could and for the time that was enough, however in this new millennium much more is needed and I hold myself accountable and responsible for transmitting to the next generation the necessary tools to both SURVIVE and EXCEL.

I imagine the ways in which our young men can be inspired if they only knew of the other Black men and women whom BOTH SURVIVED and exceeded the “standard set” of expectations for young men and women in our family; you know the “graduate, get a job, go to the Army, raise you kids” standard of success (not exactly in that order). Whatever happened to the push to raise young men and women who take the LEAD on issues that effect not just our personal coffers; but those that effect the whole of Black America. This type of child rearing is rare in my family, and it has to stop with this generation. I dream of a day when our CHILDREN will know the likes of Naim Akbar, Haki Madhabuti, David Walker, Mansa Musa, Bishop Richard Allen, and Marcus Garvey. I dream of the day when our children don’t become trapped by tradition and misinformation. And most of all I dream of a day where we can take off the gloves and be absolutely open and honest with each other no matter how ugly or bitter the truth may be. We are not unlike many other Black families in this country; possessing tremendous potential; only needing the motivation and drive to become open and work towards a better collective future.

Many see the world through rose colored lenses and would argue that everything is fine as is. For them I simply use the above image. The people are smiling, happy, loving, together, and most important of all, they know each other. The sad thing is that these people are all the first and second cousins of my mother and I cant NAME A SINGLE PERSON ON THIS PICTURE. I don’t know their stories, their traditions, or even their NAMES. This history was not passed down to my generation, the truth and histories were not transmitted in a way that it could be understood. This information is more important that that which is taught in the public schools for it gives us an insight into the people that we are, as well as whom we can be. This does not speak to every parent in my family for some made sure that some traditions were passed down, but again, this generation is being left behind. Ultimately, I am optimistic about the future of my family for there are some brothers, sisters, and cousins raising the level of consciousness and developing families that will (I’m sure of it) lead us into a positive and productive future.

My Chicago Weekend

I spent the weekend in Chicago and found myself taken back by the extent of the desolate economic, social, and political conditions that exist in the inner-city (specifically the South Side). The neighborhoods are all but completely destroyed; littered with the shells of what used to be apartment homes, and schools. The police battle the remnants of of the street gangs for the rights to destroy, harass, and terrorize what life still shines from between the bricks in the crumbling empty lots. Drug addicted mothers, teachers, fathers, and preachers kick themselves repeatedly staring out into the haze of what might be tomorrow remembering when life grew out of almost every home despite the presence of the plague. I walked and rode though the community that I once called home without fear of the danger sold to me on the news because I know that through all of the menacing looks and challenging stares lie wounds so deep that America’s best band-aid can never repair (even if they elect a Black President). Nothing short of full scale revolution will bring renewal and freedom to the communities on the South Side of Chicago, as the extent of the psychological, social, political, and economic damage has reached so deep into the culture that words and promises now fall upon deaf ears and closed eyes. Through all of the destruction and harassment (yes the CPD finds its way towards every Black Family at one point or another) I was still treated with a good time and found a piece of my Chicago of old beneath the crowded neighborhoods and dilapidated tenements. My family met in the park behind the famed Museum of Science and Industry; a place where I spent many summer days in my childhood. I got to see some family members that I had not seen in more than twenty years (many of them), and it did me a lot of good to be there. It reminded me that that light that still shines from between the bricks and concrete is love. Love is the light that shines through the frustration, the pain, and the raging anger that exists in our communities. Our families are the strength that keep us alive under these conditions and I had to see my family all in one place talking, laughing, hugging, and kissing in order to get refueled. That South Side lit up a little for me after that family gathering; Stony Island looked like it did back when Fun Town was still here even if only for a day. I have decided to take a great deal of the energy that I have spent building the community to my family for the family is the cornerstone of the community and my family needs leadership and strong role-models to guide the already powerful young minds that are developing under our noses.

Independece Day!!!!

It is about 108 degrees outside today and I have not yet decided if I and the Oklahoma sun should meet or not today. The institution is having a barbeque out on the yard this afternoon and the buzz is in the air. They put flyers up on the bulletin boards in all of the pods about a week ago advertising the event which only made me surer of my reasons for not going. “CHICKEN & WATERMELON WITH FUN IN THE SUN!!!” How dare these racist backwoods hicks? Who do they think we are idiots? I can hear them laughing and making racist jokes in the preparation alone and I dare not imagine what the actual scene will look like, besides who’s Independence Day is this anyway, my people were locked in the shed with the mules on this day in 1776. I decided not to let this event go uncontested so I drew up a sign with the words:

“DON’T EAT THE WATERMELON, MAKE A STAND!”

I posted the sign on the bulletin board above the microwave oven and waited on a response from passing inmates and staff and I got exactly what I wanted. Every person (both black and white) asked why I opposed the celebration and I eagerly gave them a historical rundown about the region in which we were incarcerated and the nature of racism in prisons. Needless to say most understood, some felt ashamed, some laughed, some ignored it and stayed focused on the chicken, music, and watermelon. My social worker (Ms. Nix) even saw the note and agreed that some of the staff “might” just resort to some type of immature foolishness, “but don’t let it spoil your fun”. Fun. Fun. I am very aware of the racism that surrounds all of us (Blacks, Latinos, and Asians) incarcerated here in Oklahoma (on loan from the state of Wisconsin) and I pull no punches when letting them know just how aware I really am. As I walk across the yard in route to the gymnasium for the “fun” I see all the excited faces in the sea of black men headed to the gymnasium. The smoke from the makeshift barbeque pits rises from the back of the prefabricated building and I already see the guards smirk as I and other black men cross the threshold into the packed gym. Inside the gym on either side there are two lines, one with pork ribs, sausages, hamburgers, and bratwurst and one on the adjacent side with condiments and cold side dishes. I mean really, this institution went all out for this event to celebrate freedom with 1480 prison inmates who’s civil liberties and “freedoms” are being disregarded daily, “fun”. I have never seen the prison population so happy, nor the guards, they were huddled in the far corner of the gym snickering, I swear prison guards can make you know what racism really feels like. At first I positioned myself at the back of the gym with brother Jaleel and Ajala by my sides (My fellow FOI’s at the time) and I notice some of the older black men on the yard dancing to some old “stepping” music and it sickened me. I and Ajala just looked at each other in utter disbelief as these black men, our elders, twisted and turned each other bopping to the music. One of the guards yells out “you boys are good” and his voice alone brings out the shame, anger, grief, and pain that our people have faced for centuries and I have to do something. As I walk away I hear Ajala sternly telling the brothers to have some shred of dignity while giving a sound historical tongue lashing. I headed for the buffet still half listening to Ajala’s aggressive assault knowing that I had to do or say something to at the very least make myself fell better about this shameful experience. I positioned myself (to the surprise of many) in the buffet line and saw a particular prison guard that had proven himself to be a first class bigot and overall idiot, his name was Whitcomb (how can I forget). I wait in line with everyone else and load my plate with everything that they have to offer (especially the watermelon). I smile and pretend to have bent under the pressure but those who know me know that something is in the works. As the mound of food grows on my plate I notice that Whitcomb notices me, my plan is working. Once my plate is full of piping hot barbecue (pork and all) I walk over to him smiling and he even smiles back a little as I approach probably thinking that he has won some ideological battle of wits. I stop directly in front of him with only a garbage can between us, stared him in his cold eyes and dropped the full plate of steaming hot food in the garbage immediately asking “can we get seconds”. This was a great victory for me because I “took” the grin from his face, I “took” his stereotypes and threw it in the garbage, steaming. All of the frustration that I felt when I watched this staff harass and embarrass Wisconsin prisoners was relieved if only for that moment. As I walk away I can feel his eyes on me the rest of the afternoon but I don’t care because today is after all…

INDEPENDENCE DAY!!!